


What Comes Next

by 13starbuck42



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s08e13 Per Manum, F/M, Grief, Heartache, Heavy Angst, Infertility, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13starbuck42/pseuds/13starbuck42
Summary: Scully and Mulder process the failed IVF - separately and together.





	1. Chapter 1

She felt like giving up; like burrowing deep in her bed, drawing her knees to her chest, and weeping until the tears were gone.  She felt like binge-eating junk food, real junk food - not tofutti rice dreamsicles, and watching Steel Magnolias on repeat.  She felt like tequila shots and curse words and hitting things, breaking things, destroying things.  She wanted to quit her job, take a vacation, get the hell out of here for however long it took.  She needed to work endlessly, tirelessly, until she couldn’t feel anything at all anymore, ever.  She felt despair, pity, rage, abandonment, distraction.  She was broken, exhausted.  And so she had asked Mulder to go, pleaded with him to leave her alone, practically pushed him out the door despite his objections. 

Scully flipped the deadbolt and turned around, leaning back against the door to her apartment, palms flush against the wood.  It was quiet; she knew he was still standing right there on the other side, but she was still and after a moment she heard Mulder’s footsteps quietly recede down the hallway.

He had been here waiting for her when she came home.  She hadn’t said much, hadn’t needed to;  he could see it in her eyes, feel the ache of her broken heart.  “It was my last chance,” she’d cried into his shoulder.  And he had taken her face in his hands, his beautiful hands, and kissed her forehead.  “Never give up on a miracle,” he had said, holding her to him, trying to absorb her sorrow by osmosis. 

She went to the window and watched him walk into the street, turning to look up at her. He saw her standing there; she knew he saw her.  He got into his car, but didn’t start the engine, didn’t drive away.  She had shut him out, both literally and figuratively, but he’d stay there until she was ready to let him back in.

Scully let the curtain fall back and turned away from the window.  She took a deep breath, a willful effort to stave off more tears, and set her shoulders.  A hot shower would provide the relief she sought, however temporary.  She found soft black leggings and a worn grey t-shirt in her dresser and pulled a fresh towel from the linen closet.  Subconsciously needing to feel safe, surrounded, held, she locked the bathroom door before slowly removed her clothing; taking care to fold each piece and stack it neatly on the vanity.  Blazer, skirt, camisole.  Pantyhose, bra, panties.  Somehow, this made it easier to breathe, the removal of her clothes.

She studied herself in the mirror, turning right and left, looking over her shoulder to examine all the angles.  Her fingers traced freckles and wrinkles and scars and she wondered what was so wrong with this tidy package of organs and bones and skin; why couldn’t it give her the thing her soul longed for, how it could betray her?

She stepped into the shower, letting the steam billow around her, but the hot water did nothing to melt the tension from her muscles.  Tears already stinging her eyes, she braced herself against the cool tile and let herself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Mulder sat in his car, looking up at the windows of her apartment.  She had moved from the window but he could still see her, in his mind’s eye, going through the motions, trying to maintain some semblance of routine.  He thought maybe she’d made dinner, taken a shower, gone to bed.  Maybe all those things, maybe none, and his heart shattered again and again when he thought of her alone, with no one to dry her tears.

He’d known the instant she’d come through the door.  He was half-asleep on her couch but he saw the light in her eyes was gone, and it was all he could do not to cry with her then, as he held her and told her not to give up.  He was surprised when she’d asked him to leave.  He tried to bargain with her, offered to pick up dinner, sit with her, hold her, anything except leave her alone.  But she was too far gone, then.  Too heartbroken, too scared to let him see it even though he already knew.  He was aware she didn’t need him there with her, certain she wouldn’t do anything irrational, but he wasn’t ready to leave.  So he sat outside her apartment in his car, and she knew he was there.  

His throat was thick, his eyes heavy, and eventually he quit fighting the tears.  He didn’t bother to wipe them away.  They slid silently from the corners of his eyes, hot and salty, careening down his cheeks, in the ravines of his nose, across his lips; they dripped off his chin onto the steering wheel and his pants and the floormats of the car.  His heart ached for her, he ached because this wasn’t something he could fix, this wasn’t a favor he could call in or a situation he could diffuse with a light-hearted comment.  This was real and heavy and dark and devastating, and it crushed him, pulverized his heart.  He squeezed his eyes closed, dug his knuckles into his eyelids and saw all the colors flash in the dark.   _God, he loved her._


	3. Chapter 3

Scully stepped out of the shower into the cool air, toes curling into the soft strands of the rug, water slicking down her body. She dried herself slowly, taking the time to carefully pull the towel over each limb, each curve and plane. She pushed the towel into her hair, squeezed hard to absorb as much moisture as she could, and curls beginning to spring up with the humidity. She brushed her teeth, flossed, smoothed lotion over her skin; all things she hoped would help her feel normal again. Scully pulled on the leggings and brought the grey t-shirt to her face.

It was his t-shirt, Mulder’s; she knew because it smelled like him. She had snuck it from his travel bag long ago, promising herself she would wash and return it. Tears flooded her eyes as she drew the shirt over her head, down her body. She blotted them away with the hem but more came anyway, and she couldn’t keep up. Then she was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, writhing, filled with rage; tears and spittle and fists flying. She was angry.  Angry at God, angry at the men who played god.  Angry at herself for hoping, and at Mulder for letting her.


	4. Chapter 4

Mulder woke some hours later to a tapping on the window.  Scully, eyes red-rimmed and puffy.  He got out of the car and folded her small body into his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head.  They stood in the still, quiet, light of dusk for an eternity before she whispered “I need you,” against his chest.  He nodded, felt her sigh, and turned to guide her inside, hand at the small of her back.

“Scully…” he trailed off as he shut the door of her apartment behind him.  He took off his shoes, hung his coat on the rack.  He watching her move around her space: wiping the counter, folding the dish towel, opening and closing the refrigerator.  She was doing ordinary things as an avoidance tactic, an attempt distract herself and him.  “Do you want some tea?”  She forced a smile and rummaged in a cupboard, coming up with Earl Grey.  She shook the little silver tin, raised her eyebrow.  He didn’t want tea.  “Sure,” he said.  “Let me make it.”  When she didn’t move, he tried again.  “Please.”  His eyes pleaded with her to let him do this for her, to let him take care of her.  She put the tin in his outstretched hand.

Scully tugged a blanket from the back of the couch and settled in.  She folded up her legs and balled up her fists, tucking them under her chin.  She was too tired to sleep, but closed her eyes anyway.  She breathed deeply and focused on the sounds, trying to ground herself: kettle boiling, spoons clinking in mugs, footsteps across the floor.  Mulder brushed a copper curl from her face.  “Hey,” she said, voice and eyes both foggy.  He handed her a warm mug and took his place beside her.  She wedged her toes under his thigh, but he pulled her feet into his lap instead.  He stretched the ends of the blanket over their legs and put his feet up on the coffee table.

“Do you want to talk about it now?” he said, looking down into his mug.  

“Do you?”

“This isn’t about me, Scully.”  

“Everything else is.”  She didn’t mean it, instantly regretted saying it.  But she didn’t apologize, didn’t look at him.

“Oh.”  He nodded.  He knew she didn’t mean it, not really, but there was some truth to it; there had to be because he certainly felt responsible, for all of it.  This maybe isn’t about him, but it’s because of him, because of his relentless search for the Truth.  The abduction, the injuries, the lies, the cancer, her infertility… Everything that’s happened to her has been because of him.  

They sipped their tea, carefully avoiding words and eye contact.  Mulder drew light circles around the slim bones of her ankles and her eyelids grew heavy again.  “Scully… maybe you should go to bed.”  

“Not yet, Mulder.”  She paused, setting her mug on the coffee table and looked over at him.  “You’ll stay for a while?”  This was her apology, an unnecessary olive branch, and he granted her the forgiveness he knew she was seeking.  

“Sure.”  He squeezed her feet.   

Scully rolled onto her back and extended her legs across his thighs, leaving her toes peeking out from under the blanket.  She folded her hands across her rib cage, forearms tucked up beneath her breasts, and closed her eyes.  Mulder adjusted the blanket to cover her, resting one hand easily just above her knee as the other tunneled back under the blanket to search for her feet.  He moved back and forth between the right and left, traced pressured circles and lines up and down her arches and across her delicate toes.  Scully’s breathing slowed and he felt the muscles in her legs unwind, watched as the lines of her face relaxed.  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do now.”  Scully breathed, breaking the silence.  “I accepted my infertility a long time ago, Mulder, but when you told me… when I found out there was still a possibility… and then you agreed to, to…” her voice breaks.  “I just thought maybe I could finally do this, finally have...  I let myself hope, I let myself believe...  It was my last chance.”  Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but it is firm; a declaration of defeat.  There were no more tears to cry, but anguish settled deep in her chest, and she threw the blanket off to breathe.  “This is not what I wanted.  This is not what I believed would happen.  I didn’t have a plan for this.”  She sat up, legs still draped over Mulder’s lap, arms encircling her thighs.  “… I - I just…”

“...don’t know what comes next,” he finished for her, and she nodded.  “Scully, they stacked the deck against you when they convinced you to leave your office at Quantico and join me in the basement.  But every single time you’re dealt a bad hand, you sit back down at the table and play another round.  You’ve never faltered, Scully, never quit.  I don’t know how you do it.  You are so damn strong, every damn time.”  His voice was filled with wonder and admiration, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t argue or agree, so he continued.  “I know you feel like there are no tears left.  You think you’re done with the anger.  All you can see now is the darkness, you feel like you’re drowning and I can tell you’re fighting it, Scully.”  He reached for her hand, dragged his thumb across her knuckles.  “Don’t fight it.  It will feel like it’s getting worse, maybe it will get worse, and maybe not all at once but eventually, over time.  There will be more tears and more anger and more darkness, but don’t fight it, Scully, please don’t fight it.”  He looked at her earnestly, desperately, transparently.  “This… this loss, it requires grief, and I can’t let you shut it down, lock it up.  Scully, you need to go through it if you want to heal, move forward, to do what comes next.”    

Scully’s breath hitched and he scooped her up into his lap, stroked her hair as she crumbled against him.  She twisted his shirt between her fingers as she wept.  “I want to save you from this part, Scully.  I want to keep your heart from breaking, I would give anything to keep that from happening… but it won’t help you heal.  It won't help me heal.”  He lifted her forehead to his, brushed the tears from beneath her eyes.  “But I will not let you do this alone.  I will not leave you alone,” he whispered.

“It hurts,” she sobbed against his chest.  “Mulder, it  _ hurts _ .”  


	5. Chapter 5

He carried her to bed.  She had fallen asleep as he held her on the couch, making restless little hums and mews in her dreams, but she didn’t wake when he moved her.  Mulder wandered her apartment aimlessly then; looking, touching, thinking, unable to sleep. 

He stepped into the bathroom, used her toothpaste to dispel the taste of tea and tears, and decided to take a shower while she slept.  As he lathered and rinsed, he took inventory of her things: shampoo and conditioner, too many soaps, shaving cream and razor.  He opened the bottles one by one, and each time it was like he’d walked into a room she had just left, catching her scent in the breeze of their passing; his heart and lungs squeezed tight with grief.  He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower to dry off.  He pulled on his t-shirt and boxers, rummaged for the sweats he kept at her place, combed his hair with his fingers.

He made the rounds then; turned out the lights and locked the front door.  But as he leaned in to close her bedroom door, he found her awake, propped up an elbow.  Her eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears, and her hair was disheveled.  He felt like an intruder.  He couldn’t bear to see her so broken, but she made no attempt to hide it from him now, and he could see all the colors of her shattered stained-glass heart.

“Did I wake you?  I woke you.  I’m sorry,” he apologized.  Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, cupped her face in his palm, brushed the tear-salt from her cheek with his thumb.   

“I heard the shower.”   

“Do you need anything?”  He would give her the stars if she asked.  

“Maybe some water.  And ibuprofen?  It’s in the medicine cabinet.”  

“Ok,” he nodded, then pressed a kiss to her forehead.  “I’ll be right back.”  

Scully wondered if it was appropriate to ask him to stay, to hold her.  She had thought she could do this alone.  She had wanted to be alone, at first; she even thought she needed to be alone, needed the space to grieve.  But when he carried her to bed and she heard him clean up their tea, straighten the blankets on the couch, take a shower… it gave her a sense of normalcy, of comfort.  And she felt safe with him here, safe when he held her.  She always had.  She needed to feel safe now, to know that she wasn’t alone in the dark.

“Scully?”  She hadn’t realized he’d come back.  Mulder held out a glass and two pills for her.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” her voice wavered.  “Mulder… will you stay?  Here, with me, I mean.  I… I think I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course.”  Mulder took the glass from her hand, set it on the nightstand, and reached to turn off the lamp.  “Is this okay?  Or would you rather I leave it on?”  Scully smiled, small but genuine in the moonlight.  “Mulder, I’m used to sleeping in the dark.”  He climbed beneath the covers on the other side of the bed, not knowing how close he should be.  He wanted to take her in his arms again.  He so desperately wanted to shelter her, provide a safe place, but he knew it was important that he give only what she asked for.  

Her back was to him, and he reached out to touch her.  He gripped the curve where her delicate shoulder slopes to slender neck, his long fingers splayed across her collar bone, thumb pressed into the nape of her neck.  

“I’ll be right here,” he whispered.  

She had asked him to stay, and he had been kind and tender.  But when he pulled his warm hand away from her, the distance between them felt like miles and she was suddenly cold and alone.  Scully crept backwards until her body fit with his.  Their knees bent together, the soles of her feet flat on his shins.  His arm came around her waist, and he sighed sleepily into her hair.  His nose nuzzled gently behind her ear.

“This my t-shirt?” he mumbled into her ear.  “I’ve been missing it.”

“Mine now.”  

“Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”  She took a deep breath and settled against him, safe, home.  Tomorrow, together, they will figure out what comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> Season 11 Scully simply asking for what she needs got me thinking about Per Manum and how she (and Mulder) processed the failed IVF. My personal struggles with infertility certainly influenced this, but I did my best to stay true to our beloved Foxy and Sculls. This is pure feels, folks.


End file.
